there's a boy in the cupboard
by NotANerd133
Summary: "Shh...I'm hiding!" She meets his innocent blue eyes and replies, "Well, if you're trying not to be seeked you're doing one heck of a good job." Elementary School AU. Romanogers. One Shot.


**_Story: there's a boy in the cupboard_**

 ** _Genre: Drama_**

 ** _Pairing (s): Romanogers_**

 ** _Summary: "Shh...I'm hiding!" She meets his innocent blue eyes and replies, "Well, if you're trying not to be seeked you're doing one heck of a good job." Elementary School AU. Romanogers. One Shot._**

 ** _A/N- Based off a prompt I found on Tumblr. Finally got a chance to write some Romanogers! I don't normally write stories about kids so this is a first for me. Been working on this one for weeks now and I'm so glad to share it with all of you. Hope you like it!_**

* * *

"Shh...I'm hiding!"

Eight year old Natasha Romanoff stares at her classmate as if he's crazy. The blonde boy was squished in one of the art classroom cupboards. His sky blue polo shirt was covered in paint stains and so were his khaki pants. She meets his innocent blue eyes and replies, "Well, if you're trying not to be seeked you're doing one heck of a good job."

He tried smiling, but it came out as more of a grimace. "Thanks for the info Sherlock."

She tried understanding his reference and came up empty. Sherlock who? "What?"

The boy shook his head slightly and she took the time to notice how tight the cupboard space actually was; he seemed relatively small yet the room he had did look extremely uncomfortable. "Nevermind." She heard him mutter, "Nobody ever gets my jokes."

Natasha glanced around and watched everyone work on their art assignments. They were doing these pieces called Mosaics. She already finished, was suppose to be getting paints to begin her new painting but this boy is obviously more intriguing than those stupid brushes and color bottles.

"Why are you in here?"

He sighed. "I was hiding from the bullies." His eyes locked onto her green ones. "Please don't tell anyone."

She frowned. Even though she's only now noticed this boy in her art classes, Natasha can't imagine why a sweet guy like him would ever be bullied. Was it his blonde hair? No, there were blondes at this school and they were very well liked. Was it his eyes? Definitely not 'because she's seen many boys and girls with eyes like that. His personality wasn't too annoying. It must of been a stupid boy thing.

Natasha flipped her bright red hair over her shoulder, her frown deepening. "What's wrong with you?"

She's surprised when, instead of shutting down, he opens up. "I'm too skinny and all the girls think I'm outta their league. I have asthma and can't play sports with the other guys and my parents can't help me either. They're both outta the country until their boss says they can come back home."

Her heart broke a little and her stoic expression faltered at his admission. Nobody should have deal with that alone, especially a kid his age. Natasha bows her head, focusing on her black suede shoes that had black ribbons on the top. "I'm sorry." She isn't sure why she feels so guilty about it. She never knew about his existence and up until now, she thought she was the only one that had issues.

She missed his beautiful smile, one that shown overall hope and optimism. Because this boy really did believe that people like her were real. They did sympathize and they did have compassion. Somehow, he's just glad he might have found someone who wanted to get to know him better.

"Hey," he said, his hand reaching out to hold her hand. She stared at their entangled hands. "You don't have to feel too bad. I've been doing real good these past few days. No worries."

Still keeping her gaze locked on their hands, Natasha stated confidently, "You're a new student."

He didn't say anything. She took the silence as her answer.

"What's your name?"

"Steve," he replied, dropping her hand and attempting to cross his arms in the tight space. "Steve Rogers."

"Natasha Romanoff." she said, trying to contain her laughter at Steve's awkward position.

Eventually, she pulled him out the cupboard and they gathered some art supplies. Since she always worked alone on these projects, she never sat with anybody at her table. That is until now.

They sat side by side in their chairs. No words were exchanged as she silently worked on her painting while Steve concentrated on drawing his sketches. Occasionally, they'd sneak glances at the other's work; Natasha saw his human portrait of her and he saw her painting of a tranquil landscape. She silently acknowledged his artistic talent, how realistic his sketch of her looked, wondering if he was born to be an amazing artist.

Most girls would question why a boy was drawing them on a piece of paper, but not her, not Natasha. She figured that he thought she was his saving grace. After all, the boy didn't have any friends, mainly enemies. She couldn't understand their hatred of him. It bothered her in more ways than one. So after class was done and everyone began packing up their bags for lunch time, she stuck by Steve's side. It was common knowledge that Natasha was a force to be reckoned with when you got on her bad side.

But while they were exiting the classroom, the older boys, who were only older than her by a year because they started school later than she did, shoved Steve in front of her and obviously didn't get the memo.

She recognized a few faces, such as Tony Stark and his pal Happy Hogan and his best friend Rhodey. Her anger, however, was at Stark solely since they never got off on the right foot anyway. His arrogant and immature nature rubbed her the wrong way. Every time he walked down the hallways, girls would flock to his side, other boys would high five him, some observed him from a far and gush when he smiled charmingly at them. To her, everything about him sent warning bells inside her head. Trouble that boy was, honestly.

Steve fell onto the floor, teeth clenched, eyes screwed shut. There were too many worried lines creasing his face for Natasha's liking. Her anger began to spike.

"Stevie, boy, do you always trip like that?" Tony asked, mockingly. He turned to his friends. "Pretty weak for skinny bones, eh?"

"Watch it Stark!" she said, her fists clenched. Her eyes shown with pure rage and frustration at the situation.

Tony couldn't stop his laughter. He wiped tears of laughter from his eyes and whistled. "Romanoff, Romanoff, Romanoff...You got me good there for a second." He glanced at her face, annoyed. "Seriously, though. What's your problem?"

The girl was fuming at the seams. "My problem is that you're messing with Steve! He wouldn't hurt a fly!"

"Of course he couldn't sweetheart. He's too weak for something of that nature."

Dear God! She wasn't more sure about anything in her entire life: Tony needed to be taught a lesson. Screw the consequences.

Her fist connected with his jaw and she'd be damned if she didn't feel good afterwards.

He fell down, clutching his face in pain and agony, withering on the floor. His friends stared shockingly at her, fear in their eyes. She was sure neither of them would mess with Steve again as far as she was concerned.

Sometime during their little squabble, a crowd had formed around them. They too stared in shock, possibly from the outcome of this fight. Quiet and innocent little redhead Natasha Romanoff had just punched rich boy Tony Stark in the face. A girl just punched him in the face and they had the same thoughts she did at that point: What would he do now?

She knew how much boys valued their reputations. So much so that, had they been in Tony's place, they might have apologized for their behavior or walk away towards the nurse's office or even spread rumors about how the fight started to make them look better than she did. But this was Tony Stark, the boy had no concept of the word 'simple'. He wouldn't dare walk away from a fight, rather keep it going because there was no way in hell he'd be an embarrassment in public.

For that reason, Natasha wasn't stunned when he started spitting out random insults at her expense. It's no surprise seeing as how he never enjoyed her company. One insult after another was practically screamed at her and she took each and everyone one of them with a grain of salt. Though one in particular caught her attention.

"And why are you so quick to defend another disgusting immigrant like yourself? What? You're gonna teach him how to act like a bitch too?"

Some say that day was the turning point in which Tony and Natasha's bitter feud came to a stand still. The people watched as she turned around, she wanted to go help Steve, but Tony had made a move from his spot on the floor, his hand enclosing on her ankle, and he pulled it back.

The world was in slow motion then.

She remembers falling so hard her head hit the floor. She remembers hearing the shocked gasps of the other students. She remembers the numbness, her muttering, "I'm fine, I'm fine…" when the teachers finally came. She remembers someone, she thinks it was Steve yelling behind her, shouting at Tony about...something. Her vision was blurry until everything turned to black.

There are worst ways to go down.

 _'''_

At first, she thinks she's dreaming. When you walk up in a hospital bed all alone, some part of you wants to believe it isn't because of what you thought happened, presumably, hours ago. This incident didn't happen because she took a chance to make a friend. This incident didn't happen because she defended someone she just met. Nor did this happen because she made an impulsive act of violence against someone else. No, none of that clicked together like a puzzle piece.

The only thing she could think about was Steve. The only person she cares about right now is the boy she found in the cupboard during art class.

Yes, her head hurts very badly. Yes, she doesn't know what'll happen in the next few minutes. Yes, she's in denial about how she ended up here. But she does not regret befriending him.

Soon, a nurse comes in, asking her how she feels and that the doctor will see her once they go over her records. Natasha knows she's not the type to get injured so she's certain they won't take long. Her and hospitals don't mix.

So when the nurse slips away, Natasha observes her room. There's a huge glass window that gives her a fantastic view of the city, but it's obviously nighttime now. The room is completely barren, save for the two waiting chairs and the beeps from the machines, no other signs that people had come to visit—

Wait.

There's a note lying on the eating tray beside her. Her hand reaches and pulls the tray towards her. She takes the note and unfolds it. Only an outsider would see her trembling hands and panic stricken face before she read it.

 _Dear Natasha,_

 _It's been an hour and you're still not awake yet. This is all my fault._

She then realizes the note is broken into segments, similar to a diary.

 _Dear Natasha,_

 _Two hours. I feel so bad._

 _Dear Natasha,_

 _We've officially reached three hours. You're really scaring me now. Please wake up._

 _Dear Natasha,_

 _Four freaking hours! I have to leave 'cause they said I'm not allowed to stay. But after school tomorrow, I'm gonna see you again._

The notes stop there. Good. She's already a mess after reading the note. Tears are silently streaming down her face. She hasn't cried in ages. She takes a minute to breathe. At least he came to visit her. But the worst feeling settles in the pit of her stomach.

He thinks this is his fault. He feels guilty because of _her_.

"Steve…" she whispers to herself. And she knows it's not his fault, it's her burden to carry, but now she just feels sick. Why does everyone in her life feel guilty when it comes to her and who she is? He bestowed his faith in her, thinks that this isn't normal for her and he caused her to change. But despite her age, she's been through a lot. Endured far more pain than any child should have on a regular basis. It explains all her problems really.

Her parents died in a fire back in Russia when she was four. Ever since then, she's been in and out of foster homes. No place is forever, only temporary. Except, believe it or not, the home of Ivan Petrovich, who adopted her after visiting Russia four years ago. The man was nothing short of sweet and kind. Though, he died, leaving Natasha with his god awful wife. Which, in retrospect, she should have seen coming; Ivan was getting sicker as her years with him wore on. His wife hated that he even adopted a little girl, let alone let them have actual custody of her.

So that sums up why she hasn't come bearing any flowers or balloons or gifts like an average parent would. And even if she had shown up, it must've been to just check her in and pay the medical bill, what with all the cash she's still mooching off of from her deceased husband. Natasha sighs, doesn't get why she expected her to care.

But Steve cares. He cares and that's enough for her. Enough for her to crawl out the dark black hole she's stumbled into.

Of course, the doctor eventually came in the room, going over the usual medical terms with her as if she isn't old enough yet to understand the shit he's saying. He's right, she doesn't know, but then again, that stuff was always pointless to her anyways. But at this point, he must think she's stupid. He tells her she had a slight concussion and he had the absolute _nerve_ to spell it out for her and give her the simple, baby definition of it. She swears these people have no respect for her intelligence.

She has to stay overnight just so they can run a few more tests on her before she goes home tomorrow. Most kids would be overjoyed.

And she isn't for obvious reasons.

(Later, Natasha falls asleep but her nightmares make a brief appearance until she sits up for the rest of the night, eyes closed, though she knows even sleep is too difficult an action to complete.)

 _'''_

"I'm _really_ sorry—"

If she hears those words one more time, she might just hit him.

"For the love of God—Steve we've been over this. It's my fault, not yours." she insists, hands gripping her elbows tightly. She stares him straight in the face too, something she knows will stop his guilt tripping because, let's face it, her vibrant green eyes (though mostly cold and calculating) get to him every time. He shuts his mouth, giving her his full attention. "Now, I don't want to hear another word about you and how sorry you are. For my sake, please?"

He nodded. "You got it, Nat."

Only recently had he started referring to her as _Nat_ , a nickname Ivan called her when he was still living. She didn't mind it, doesn't correct him or reprimand him for it. It's a reminder to her that, yes, you don't have any friends, but you found one in Steve Rogers.

"But while we're on the subject about what happened…" she trailed off, images flashing before her eyes. "How's Tony?"

Steve attempted a scoff though it came out as more of a grunt. "Suspended for a month. He didn't even try and get his daddy to help him with this one. Apparently, he does have some values left in him. Injuring a girl is against his rules and he said he never meant to hurt you like that. But..."

She raised an eyebrow. "But...?"

"He still didn't apologize for calling you a...a very bad word."

She wanted to laugh at Steve's inability to curse, but she found it too adorable. So she simply replied, "Sounds like Tony alright. Did you talk to him about it?"

Steve avoided her gaze. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and sighed. "Um...I kinda did more than, you know, talk with him. It's complicated."

Natasha kept a straight face despite how her stomach was doing nervous back flips. "Explain complicated."

Steve flinched at her tone. "I may have threatened him? I swear I didn't mean to! I hated how he was treating you and how he'd been treating me." His eyes widened. "Please don't be mad! Oh my gosh, you're mad aren't—"

Moving off the bed and leaning across its railing, Natasha kissed his cheek. It was quick and chaste but set both of their faces on fire, the two furiously blushing.

"No," she said, gaze lingering on his, "I'm not mad at all."

Steve coughed, face still set a blaze. "Alright then..." A moment of realization dawned on his young face. "I left something here on your tray."

"You did."

She wasn't the least bit surprised when he said, "You read it."

"Yes."

He tried playing it cool but failed miserably. "Oh, well, that's good, I guess."

"Do you always write when you're worried about someone?" she asks, mainly because her curiosity got the best of her.

Steve shook his head. "I did that because I was nervous. I would have drawn you but I don't think you would want to see what you look like in a hospital bed."

She thought about what he said and was reminded of a few days back when they were in art class. She says, "You drew me the first time we met, when I let you sit with me." This time, she looks away from him and in a small voice says, "I wonder what I look like to you."

Steve pulls out a sketchbook from his messenger bag lying on the floor beside his chair. As he flips through the pages, he hopes he can put a smile on her face, bring the light back in her eyes, because the haunted look she has is bothering him. Finally, he finds the place where he stuck the portrait (in between his two landscape drawings of New York City) and hands the drawing to Natasha.

At first, she hates it, how everything about her from that angle is ugly; her nose is too narrow, eyes too big, face too square and numerous other things. But there's a certain softness on her features that she knows only Steve could capture. And, the more she observes it, the more she realizes how detailed it is, as if he saw the rawness and vulnerability of herself while she was steady working. This thought should terrify her, that someone like him could read her so well, but it doesn't, and Natasha feels overwhelmed with _something_ she can't even put into words.

She turns toward Steve, who had been watching her with careful eyes. Their eyes meet and everything is silent until she tells him:

"Thank you."

And she isn't sure if he understood why she said it but from the simple nod of his head, along with the bright glint in his shining blue eyes, she knows he understands.

(After leaving the hospital, she'll question why she kissed him while preparing her outfit for the next day in her bedroom, ceasing her clothes search and coming to one conclusion.

She likes Steve Rogers.

Natasha thanks the cupboards in her art classroom for the miracle that is her very first crush.)


End file.
